


In The White Room...

by Creej



Category: White Collar
Genre: Coma, Gen, Mostly Peter, OT3ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 01:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11773008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creej/pseuds/Creej
Summary: Peter wakes up to find he's somewhere he wasn't expecting.





	In The White Room...

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for story suggestions after "The Journey To Forgiveness" and Janis suggested Neal in a coma after an op gone wrong. This is not that story. But the idea of one of them being in a coma stuck with me and this is the result.

Peter opened his eyes and frowned. Where he was wasn't where he expected to be. In fact, he didn't know _where_ he was. As he became more aware, he realized he was sitting in a leather wingback chair, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt...and barefoot. He and the chair were the only spots of color in the stark white...room? He looked around, more curious than frightened, noting the lack of edges, lines, definition. He turned his attention to himself, carefully running his hands over his head and body, looking for injuries. Nothing obvious - to him, at least. There was always the possibility of internal damage. But he didn't feel any pain, nothing to indicate that he was anything other than a healthy, fit man.

"El?...Neal?"

He frowned again, puzzled by the lack of an echo his words should have made. His frown deepened as he cast his mind back, trying to remember what had preceded his current situation. His last clear memory was hearing Neal say the extraction phrase. He'd gotten the evidence they needed to shut down the two businessmen who'd been siphoning money from several high profile charities. After that it was all a muddle. He shivered but it had nothing to do with the temperature of the space where he'd found himself. He felt himself start to panic and clamped down on it. So far, he'd seen nothing threatening. In fact, he'd seen nothing at all except the chair he was sitting in. But even his logical mind told him that something didn't need to be physical to be threatening.

Logical. He was a logical man, he dealt with facts, evidence so he listed what he knew - he was in a white room (for lack of a better word), the ambient temperature was comfortable as was the chair he sat in. The space had no discernable boundaries - at least from where he was sitting. He had no idea how long he'd been there and no idea why he was dressed as he was. He had no obvious injuries, either internal or external and he was alone, nothing to keep him occupied except his thoughts.

With a somewhat irritated huff, he stood, taking a better look around - still the stark, featureless white he'd seen upon opening his eyes. For lack of anything better to do, he picked a direction and started walking, the floor cool against his bare feet.

After what seemed minutes but could have been hours - time seemed to flow very differently here, wherever here was - he saw a spot of color in the distance. As he got closer, he recognized the chair he'd woken in. He was sure it was the same chair, it still had the indentation in the cushion where his ass had rested.

"Went in circles," he said and startled at the sound of his voice but again, noted the lack of echo. He pondered a moment then deliberately stepped to the right of the chair, turned his back and started walking again. Again, it could have been minutes or hours before he saw something in the distance and once more he approached the chair...from the left.

"What the hell...?"

He knew he hadn't circled around - he'd walked as straight a line as possible and the chair hadn't been moved. Who was there to move it?

He sat down with a sigh, rubbing his face and his thoughts went to his team, Neal...Elizabeth. Did they know where he was? Who had him? Did _anybody_ have him? There was a very distinct lack of clues and his memory supplied nothing in the way of answers.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he was aware of was faint voices, one higher pitched than the other but he couldn't make out what was being said. However, he could detect a note of concern in the tone. Why be concerned? he wondered. Did something happen to Neal? To El? He felt his heart begin to race at the thought. If something had happened to Elizabeth, to Neal he had to be there.

Suddenly, it was as if every muscle in his body seized and he curled around himself, gasping. It felt like he'd been tasered from multiple directions but surprisingly his heartrate slowed and settled into a steady rhythm. Slowly, he straightened out and leaned back in the chair, getting his breathing under control. Unaccountably, tears pricked his eyes. He didn't know where he was, how long he'd been there, if he'd ever see Elizabeth or Neal again. But he couldn't help but smile at the thought of them, his partners in more than one sense. Waking up with El's softness on one side and Neal's hard planes on the other was one of his life's joys. His hands itched to touch them again, feel them pressed against him.

His head fell against the back of the chair and he closed his eyes, seeing their faces, eyes dark with arousal, crinkled with amusement and playfulness, wide with concern, even sparking with anger or irritation. Their eyes, blue to his brown, told him better than words how much they loved him. It was there in every glance, every look, despite what else was there. With a sigh, he let himself drift to sleep, the image of their faces following him down.

"Hon? Come on. You need to wake up."

His brow furrowed, hearing the strange reverberation of the words and opened his eyes. Again, all he saw was the endless expanse of white.

"Peter, open your eyes for us. Please."

"El? Neal? Where...?"

"Hon?"

This time he detected hope in the word through the reverb. His eyes slipped closed again - he was just so tired for some reason he couldn't fathom. He'd done nothing to explain why he was so exhausted all of a sudden. His limbs, his entire body felt so heavy, like he was encased in concrete. He let himself be pulled back down into dreamless sleep.

"Peter. Time to wake up."

This time the words lacked the reverberation and he became aware that he was no longer sitting in the chair but lying down on something just a little too hard for his liking. He slit his eyes open, squinting at the bright light so different from the soft, muted light of where he'd been.

"There you are."

His gaze slid to the side, toward the voice and he saw the welcome sight of Neal's smile, though it was worried around the edges. He swallowed past a dry throat and felt something against his lips. Reflexively, he opened his mouth and sighed when his parched throat was soothed by something cool.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired," he managed to get out. "What happened?"

"Hayward and Evans happened," Neal said. "I got the evidence and some audio close enough to a confession to count then said the extraction phrase. Like the big bad FBI agent you are, you were first through the door. Evans clocked you a good one with a Glock to the head." He paused and lightly squeezed Peter's hand between his own. "Long story short, you came in with a subdural hematoma. They had to operate to stop the bleed. Halfway through, you arrested."

"How long?"

"Five days," Neal said. "You've been out for five days."

"Five days," Peter repeated. "Doesn't seem like that long...seems longer..." He closed his eyes. "Heard you. You and El."

"I'm glad."

He smiled faintly, feeling slender fingers card through his hair, soothing him, letting him know he was no longer alone...like he'd been in that room. "Missed you...was all alone, nothing, no one with me...afraid...afraid I'd never..."

"Shhh, I"m here," Neal whispered. "El's coming. We'll be here. Always."

The last thing he felt before he slipped back under was Neal's lips brushing over his.

A week later, he was sitting on the back patio at home, watching Satchmo chase a scent, burying his nose in a clump of grass for a few seconds before moving on. In his hand was a bottle of beer, sweating moisture as it slowly warmed. But his thoughts weren't on his dog or the beer - they were on the featureless white room, empty except for a leather wingback chair. A room where he'd spent - according to Elizabeth and Neal - the better part of a week. Intellectually, he knew the room didn't exist, that it was a construct of his mind but it had felt very real. He could still feel the leather under his hands, the padding against his head and back, hear the squeak of the leather when he'd moved. Could still feel the cool floor he'd walked on for minutes, hours, maybe days. What he remembered most though was the loneliness.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep, the scent of Elizabeth's perfume and Neal's cologne bringing a smile to his lips as they joined him. He was there, with them, and he would never be alone again.


End file.
